Vanitas
by RocknRollagirl
Summary: One might assume it would have occurred to him sooner. But for some reason, he never really thought about it, not like that. Wee!chesters


**Hey there:)**

 **Originally, I really intended to write something lighthearted and funny this time, but apparently, I´m just not very good at that and this is what I came up with instead. It`s a bit of wee!chester angst, Sam would be about 11, which would make Dean about 15 years old.**

 **Warning: rather detailed description of the death of an animal**

 **My gratitude goes to Soncnica, who was kind enough to beta once again:) I owe you, dear!**

 **Disclaimer: I own a few Supernatural DVD´s and a laptop. That´s about it:)**

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 _Vanitas= A symbol or event that serves as a reminder of mortality_.

It was kinda weird, come to think of it. With the life they had, with him now really knowing what was out there for quite some time, one might assume it would have occurred to him sooner. But for some reason, he never really thought about it, not like that.  
It was more of a passing fear, a lingering unease whenever Dad or Dean were away, a diffuse _what if_ lurking in the back of his mind.  
It wasn´t like he didn´t know about death, cause he did.  
People seemed to die all the time. His new friend Billy had been taken home in the middle of a school day when his grandmother died.  
People died in the hospitals his family sometimes ended up in, despite their best efforts to the contrary.  
People their father tried to save died.  
John didn´t talk about it, of course, but the silences, the empty gazes and the empty bottles told him all he needed to know about that. So, all in all one would think this wouldn´t catch him completely off guard, but it does.

It had been raining on and off all day and it was only natural that the rain would pick up again the moment school was out. That wouldn´t have bothered him much, normally, because Dean would walk with him, or, if it got really bad, John might even drive by and pick them up. Not today, though, because John was two states over hunting a banshee and Dean was with him. So he was all alone when he trudged home in the fast falling darkness of late Michigan November, musing idly about how well the weather fitted his mood.

He was only two blocks away from the motel when he heard it. It was a high, terrified whine. The sound froze him to the spot and made him reach for his belt instinctively, which was stupid, since it wasn´t like he could bring his knife to school. A few seconds later the sound came again, higher now and filled with pain. There was nothing human to it, but it was so full of anguish that he could feel his feet begin to move on their own accord, carrying him around a corner into a narrow alley between high, grey buildings. Rubbish was clattered on the walkway and there was a dumpster near the end of the road. Even from a distance, he could see something lying beside it, could hear the whine come from there. Without conscious thought he picked up his pace and started running down the alley, passing four streetlights out of which only one actually worked. He was panting by the time he came close enough to make out details of the scene and what he saw stopped him short.

On the side of the road there was a pool of blood.  
The stench of decay and death clung to the surroundings, rising from the street, pressed against the walls of the buildings. A few streaks of blood had trailed down the slightly steep road, painting a bizarre pattern on the asphalt. A dog lay in the middle of the puddle, its lower body completely crushed, bones protruding from where its hip would have been. Its fur, that might have been a dirty shade of brown before, was now matted with blood, its eyes open and unblinking. He was standing about twenty feet away, unable to move a muscle, unable to think, to breathe.

That was when he saw the movement. A smaller dog, previously hidden from his view by a cardboard box, stepped into the street, nudging the carcass with its nose. He couldn´t help to notice how its muzzle came away red. And then it made that sound again, passing through him, filling him with a kind of dread he never felt before. It was a terrified, agonized, desperate keening that settled in his bones with a finality that made him immediately aware he would never be able to completely shake it off again.

He couldn´t remember how he walked the last few feet. The next thing he knew he was on his knees, blood seeping into his jeans, backpack and sport shoes beside him on the road. He was so close to the dead animal he could have touched it if he reached out. The young dog didn´t seem to notice him, too lost in its grief and terror as it continued wailing. Somewhere in a rational corner of his mind he wondered if other people could hear it, too, if someone else would come, but the rest of his being was completely transfixed on the little dog.

It sat on its haunches in the slowly growing puddle of blood, mourning a loved one. Maybe it was cursing the one who drove the car and left its mother or father or brother on the roadside, maybe it was howling out to the universe about the unfairness of it all, maybe it was screaming for help. He didn´t know, but that was the moment he realized it. All of it; all of the harsh, brutal truth that life ended with death. That there was no knowing the When or the Where, that there was no guarantee for a Why that could make it more bearable.

Up until this moment a part of him had always trusted his brother when he said everything would be okay, believed his Dad when he assured him he would come back. But right then he realized there was absolutely no guarantee for safety, for justice.  
That a day might come when he would wake up in a room without them and that there was no telling this day wouldn´t be tomorrow.  
That he would walk and talk in a world where they wouldn´t see it, wouldn´t hear it.  
That he would breathe and live in a world where they were dead.

He could feel tears burn the way down his cheeks, mixing with the rain that was still going strong. The dog was silent for a moment and in the absence of its howl he could hear another sound, a wrenched, choked sob. It was soon followed by another and another and all of a sudden he was crying uncontrollably, his hands pressed over his face in a hopeless attempt to keep the tears and sounds inside.

He was crying for all the times he wondered what he would do if Dad didn´t come back, all the nights he spent worrying about his brother that was out hunting with him, all the _what ifs_ and _if onlys_ and _never will bes_ he knew about and all those he was scared of. But mostly, he was crying for the little dog that was sitting beside him on the road, mourning the loss of someone it had loved.

Eventually, the tears stopped and his breathing evened out and he continued sitting there for just a few more seconds, taking the time to collect himself. While he had completely blended out his surroundings before, he felt his senses return with growing clarity the more time went by. He could feel the cold wind that blew through the alley, the little droplets of rain that were still falling, the dampness in his clothes. He could hear the sound of traffic and people coming and going and moving about their lives in the distance. He could hear his own breathing, his own heartbeat.

He jerked in surprise when he felt something touching his arm and tried to jump up, but his legs had fallen asleep from kneeing on the road for who knows how long and all he managed was an awkward shuffle backwards. The little dog sat before him, staring up at him with big dark eyes. It was small, would probably only reach up to his knee if he was standing up and he noticed with a startle that enough time had passed that it was already too dark to tell the color of its fur.

There was no collar around its neck, but it had this stance that immediately reminded him of Dean. It stood carefully positioned between the carcass and him, regarding him attentively. The piercing gaze was not exactly hostile but the way it canted its head and stared right at him left no room for doubt it would go for his throat if he made a wrong move. This one knew how to protect itself and those it cared for.

He respected that, but the memory of the anguished howl from before still ringing in his ears made him reach out anyway, offering his hand with the palm up, meaning no harm. After a few seconds in which both parties stood perfectly still, simply looking at the other, the dog moved a step forward, stretching its head until its nose touched his hand. He held perfectly still, letting his companion sniffle across his palm. When the dog started to lick his skin he inched closer, reaching out with his other hand ever so slowly, until he could lay it on the animal´s back. The dog froze immediately and for a second he was certain it would turn around and run away, but then it relaxed again, closing the distance between them until it was nuzzled into his side.

He started stroking the fur, mumbling soothing nonsense and the dog returned the gesture with licking his arm and pressing itself closer to his chest. There was blood on its fur and blood on its paws, but there was blood on his jeans and hands too, so it didn´t really matter. They continued sitting there until a particular sharp gust of wind made him shiver violently, reminding him that it was still November and still night. He carefully set the little dog down before pushing himself up, frozen muscles protesting the movement. He picked up his bag and his sport shoes before his gaze fell on the carcass again.

He felt disgusted with himself for doing it, but he was still thinking rationally enough to know there was no way he could carry the dead dog all the way to the little patch of greenery behind their motel and burry it without someone noticing. That only left the police.  
He made an anonymous call with the phone John had given him for emergency situations. After disconnecting the call, he stood there for another long moment, staring at the dead dog and realized he couldn´t find words for the prayer he wanted to speak. Brushing his hands over his eyes once more he looked down at the little dog that sat by his feet, silently keeping its wake.

 _Please_.

It was the only word in his mind, and he found himself repeating it silently, over and over again, without knowing who he was begging, without knowing for what.

Eventually, he picked up his backpack and shoes, turned around and the dog followed him without hesitation. He decided to make a detour in order to avoid the bigger streets, since it was a fair guess that the bloodstains on his jeans would draw unwanted attention to him. When the motel came in sight, the rain was still pouring down, blurring his surroundings. That was the reason why he first thought his mind was playing tricks on him when he saw the familiar outlines of a Chevy Impala standing under the only streetlamp of the parking lot, but then the doors opened and voices that he would have recognized anywhere drifted over to him.

"Dad? Dean?"

The two figures that had emerged from the car turned around at his shout. The smaller one standing by the passenger´s side immediately called back a "Sammy, is that you?" with that mixture of warmth and implied teasing and concern that was a hundred percent Dean. Seconds later, it was followed by a deeper, rumbling "Sam?" from Dad. He broke out into a run, racing down the sidewalk and onto the parking lot, all of a sudden driven by the overwhelming need to see them from up close, to see that they were alright and alive.

"Sammy, are you okay?" Dean had dropped the bag he had been holding and Dad had stepped around the hood of the car, both looking confused. He came to a stop before them and their confusion quickly turned to worry. "Sam, what happened? Are you hurt?" Dad came closer, crouched in front of him and lay a hand on his shoulder.

"Tell me who did it and I´m going to make their life hell, I promise you!" Dean was raging, green eyes roaming over him, taking in the speckles of blood, the soaking wet clothes and the puffy red eyes he knew he had and wringing his hands as if he was already strangling his little brother´s attacker.

He was speechless for a second, his mind absolutely blank, unable to put the past few hours into words. That was the moment his little companion stepped into the small circle of light, prompting Dean to ask: "Who does that little fellow belong to? And, geez, what the hell happened to him?"  
And then he lost it.

He wrapped his arms around his father and buried his face in the leather-clad shoulder. "You´re back you´re back you´re back thank God you´re back." He knew he was freaking his family out right now, but he couldn´t help it. He reached out with one hand and grabbed his brother´s coat, pulling him closer until he was crouching down beside them.

"Yes, we are back. We are always coming back, son", Dad mumbled into his hair soothingly.  
"Everything`s okay, Sammy, everything´s fine, just calm down and we´ll figure it out", Dean promised him, confident and certain and right _there_ and Sam held on tighter to his family and found himself believing them for a few moments longer.

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 **Let me know what you think:)  
**


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